Sugar, Spice and Everything Nice
by The Lady Avaritia
Summary: And ordinary day for Mycroft Holmes. The diet is going well, thank you very much. -warnings for graphic descriptions of anorexia/bulimia- Coffee, smokes and diet cokes, that's what handsome boys are made of.


**Reader, beware. This story contains a graphic depiction of eating disorders, namely, anorexia and bulimia. One of my darker head-canons is that Mycroft has been suffering from EDs all his life, and Sherlock's nip about the diet was actually a very cruel taunt, a vicious jab at his brother's health. Please, if this kind of thing offends you, turn back now. Thank you.**

Sugar, Spice and Everything Nice

"_How's the diet?"  
"Fine."_

Fuck. His stomach hurts. Bloody hunger pangs. He looks at his newly brought coffee mug. Anthea has just given it to him.

"Cream or no cream, sir?"

"No cream, you know I drink black."

"Sugar?"  
"No thank you."  
Sugar? Cream? Is she kidding? Does she even know how much calories that is? He'd have it black, thank you very much. Yesterday was his third zero-calories day of the week, so today he gets to reward himself with coffee, but not too much coffee. He drinks it carefully, in small sips to lull his stomach into a false sense of being filled.

_Coffee, smokes and diet cokes, that's what handsome boys are made of._

Well, he's not a boy, exactly, but hell if he'll let his body one-up him. He's got this round. The disgusting useless parcel of flesh that is his prison has been brought completely under control. A particularly violent surge of pain sends him doubling over, hands flying across his torso as he tries to stifle a wince.

"Sir, are you quite alright?" Anthea asks from behind the door that separates her office from his.

"Yes." He replies evenly and drinks the rest of the coffee.

He had the last cigarette break fifteen minutes ago. It will be suspicious if he goes out now. He'll wait another fifteen minutes.

_How's the diet?  
Fine._

Damn you Sherlock. The handsome brother, with his pretty face, protruding hips and countable ribs, and sticking out cheekbones and milky skin, damn you. He grips his sides tighter, because, fuck, it hurts so fucking much, but he can't give in, shouldn't give in, protruding hipbones, countable ribs, isn't that the goal?

Sod this.

He reaches for his emergency stash of blueberry cake in the fridge under his desk where everyone assumes he's hiding alcohol (do they have any idea how much calories a tumbler of scotch has? No. They don't.).

He'll hate himself for it. Hel, he hates himself for it now as he cuts a thin slice, and eats it in small bites, chewing each bite exactly twenty-seven tmes.

He clears the crumbs from his desk carefully, relocks his fridge and gets up slowly. For a few moments black stars swim in his vision and he grips the edge of the desk for balance. Then, calmly, he makes his way towards the bathroom, and locks himself in.

_How's the diet?  
Fine._

Already, he can see the fat filling him in. And he was doing so fine!

He slowly and carefully kneels in front of a porcelain toilet seat, holds it for leverage with one hand and drives the finger of the other down his throat. He gags. The offending cake makes its way out. Good. That's good.

His stomach is empty and he is heaving. All's well. It's no longer in his body, so it doesn't count, right? He gets up, his vision swimming, splashes cold water on his face, pulls one of those bendable toothbrushes from his inner coat pocket and brushes his teeth. Can't risk having bad breath now, can he. He washes his hands, and runs them, still damp, though his hair to give it shape. Already he's feeling much better.

_How's the diet?  
Fine._

Mycroft Holmes walks out of the bathroom with a small smile curving his thin lips, suit pristinely straightened, shoes polished, hair slicked to the side and enters his office.

"Any calls, Anthea?"  
"No sir."  
"Good. Bring a glass of cold water to my office. I will step out to bum a fag."  
"Certainly, sir."

_Coffee, smokes and diet cokes that's what handsome boys are made of._


End file.
